Pussy Productions

By Mark DK Berry

In the eccentric world of 'Pussy Productions,' a London-based porn production company, a motley crew of individuals find themselves inexplicably thrown together. How this incendiary mix of people came to converge is a curious tale in itself.

Sir Stott, a knighted Etonian, longs for the elegant normality of his pre-Pussy Productions life. Meanwhile, Hazelhot, an ex-military psychopath, is hell-bent on sowing violent, bloody chaos wherever he goes.

As events spiral out of control, the bizarre escapades of these characters become the talk of societal clubs, working-class pubs, newspapers, and even military history books. Throw in a handful of dwarfs, some fiery feminists, and a couple of famous porn stars, and you have a recipe for disaster beyond anyone's wildest imagination.

The tale unfolds in ways that defy rational explanation or belief, leaving high-ranking government officials and gangland hoodlums hoping such madness will never be repeated.

Welcome to a satirical journey where chaos reigns supreme, and the only certainty is utter unpredictability.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark DK Berry
• Release date: Feb 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005369392

Mark DK Berry

Mark DK Berry's written works include fiction, non-fiction, poetry books, and audiobooks. He also writes and produces music. For further information visit www.MarkDKBerry.com

Book preview

PART I

An Attempted Take-over

A golden Rolls Royce pulled into an industrial estate in Deptford and came to a halt outside Pussy Productions headquarters. The rear door flew open, and shortly there-after something attempted to squeeze and gazumpf its way out. Hoots, the most loyal of South African chauffeurs, appeared around the rear of the car a moment later to assist.

Allow me to help you, sir, he said, grabbing at an arm, then putting a shoe up onto the polished wing to pull at the beast within.

Get your damn hands off me, you inbreed! came the gruff reply from the lump of sweaty, reddening flesh that was now trapped in the door frame.

Eventually extricating itself from the vehicle through a series of grunts and twists, he brought himself to his full five-feet-one-half-inches and bore down upon the waistline of the six-and-a-half foot South African, while grunting like a baby rhino.

Bloody wogs, always meddling in our affairs, he murmured between huffs.

I’m white South African, sir, replied Hoots.

Still a bloody wog, and a turncoat to boot, came the reply.

Sir Stott waddled his way towards the glass entrance of his empire. Shaking off his chauffeur’s help as he struggled to put one foot in front of the other.

I can do it, boy. I’m not a bloody invalid! shouted Sir Stott.

He’s a bloody invalid, said Rigby, to himself more than the other man in the room.

They were watching with some amusement through the tinted glass, as Stott huffed and puffed like a demented badger and slowly made his advance upon the building where they now waited.

He calls an emergency meeting and then takes most of the day to get to it, continued Rigby.

"We all know your views, Rigby, but for now it would be more astute of you to keep schtum, especially in view of our current crisis. Anyway, the more crippled he becomes, the better."

It was the commanding voice of Mr. R. Hazelhot. Ex-paratrooper and commander of the guards until caught trying to sodomise a recruit. Since then, the only work he’d been able to consider was in the lower industries as a managerial viper. Something he excelled at. Hazelhot was currently sitting a distance from the window in a darker part of the room, as he didn’t like the light. A cloud of cigar smoke occasionally billowed out and was sucked into the air-conditioning system above.

Rigby made nervous glances back and forth from the scene outside the window to the darkened corner where Hazelhot lurked.

I hope you know what you are doing, said Rigby.

Trust, Rigby, trust. And wipe that sweat from your brow. You make me wonder if it isn’t you who might be the weak link in this impending engagement.

It wasn’t me that caused it, muttered Rigby, thinking Hazelhot wouldn’t hear.

And it isn’t you who has to deal with it. So park your shivering butt on some leather and speak only when you are spoken to, replied Hazelhot. Yellow belly, he added, as he eyed Rigby in the way a puff-adder might view a mouse.

A moment later the office door swung open, and the rotund Stott stumbled noisily in, followed by his chauffeur.

How delightful to see you, Sir Stott, said Hazelhot, rising from his seat and heading towards Stott with his arm outstretched.

You bloody snake! bellowed Stott, wasting no time to express his thoughts. Think you can slither round behind me and try a takeover, do you? he bellowed, as one eye closed and the other got larger, his hand then making a rapid snaky gesture that distracted everyone for a moment. Hmm? he finally added into the pregnant silence that followed.

Stott’s face was reddening as he continued to ignore the outstretched hand of his business partner, instead holding him in what he felt certain was a steely stare. His body, at that moment, reminding him he was in no state to be standing for long periods, and so he made his way across the room towards his chair; a commanding leather Chesterfield that was kept empty should he ever need to visit.

He misjudged his trajectory, and shot across the room in a stumble that failed to place him in the central location, designed by the maker to nurture the human buttock. It was a miss, and he went crashing down behind the chair, sending a large yucca plant across the length of the window until it was lying prostrate on the office floor beside him.

Hoots, you damn buffoon, get me up at once! he shouted, but Hoots was already towering over the flailing turtle, struggling to find a safe part to pull him up by.

It was an interesting moment, and it reminded Hazelhot of the time he had tried to push a large jelly fish back into the ocean around the shores of Tahiti as a child. The damn thing was just too slippery. He was enjoying the recollection of kicking the thing to death as an alternative, when Hoots finally got Stott into a safe landing upon the Chesterfield. Once done, Hoots positioned himself like a faithful dog a little behind the chair and stared straight ahead like a member of the Queen’s guard.

Hazelhot eyed them both, weighing them up, before breathing a sigh and wandering back across the room to stand in front of his own slightly less commanding desk and chair. Rigby nervously took the signal as his cue, and positioned himself upon a third, thoroughly uncommanding office chair. Everyone then eyed everyone else suspiciously, except Hoots, who continued to stare straight ahead.

Stott tried to speak, but he was still struggling to catch his breath. Hazelhot waited with an angelic look of patience on his face. On Stott’s third failed attempt, he took the lead, though he did so with a pre-emptive cough equal in its angelic politeness to the look on his face, and just as false.

"Huh-huh-rum, he began, as gently as he could so as not to rile the odorous beast further. Sir Stott… he then began, pausing a moment to allow the humility of his demeanour to sink into the cantankerous old bastard. I believe you are referring to the attempt by Quaker and Quaker to buy a large portion of Pussy Production shares that were floating on the stock market yesterday. Now, before you fall into the obvious error of judgement you were about to make, allow me to delineate for you just what plan Quaker and Quaker had in mind."

The irritation that Hazelhot’s fey display of integrity was having on Stott’s senses brought on a new display of wrath, and he let Hazelhot know it.

You bloody what? Good god man! bellowed Stott. I don’t wish to hear your slithering excuses.

Both Stott’s hands made snake shapes as his face puckered up and spittle sprayed from his mouth, but he had overdone it and the air wheezed back into his lungs as he struggled from the exertion.

Rigby looked at Hazelhot and shrugged his shoulders. The display of Stott imitating snakes confused him. And while Rigby was lost, Hazelhot wasn’t. But Stott soon continued.

You and I both know what your bloody game was, he said. You saw a chance to steal the company out from under me. Admit it, snake!

Hazelhot was indeed driven by an innate reptilian psychology, but was also incapable of admitting to anything. Denial, deception, and a total fabrication of events was his pathological forte.

No, no, no, no, no, replied Hazelhot, adding a false laugh. Oh, how funny you should see it that way.

As he spoke, he moved a paperweight a few inches across his desk. It helped draw the focus away from his defensive lying, or so his subconscious thought.

No, no. Quaker and Quaker were saving the day. There was another takeover bid. A company called Stop It Don’t Rocket. They were after those same shares and had they got them, we all might have fallen.

Stock it, don’t rob it? shouted Stott. What sort of damn silly name is that? Who in hell’s name are they?

He was frowning, one eye now deucedly low against the other. He smelt a rat and knew damn well it was coming from Hazelhot’s corner. In which direction he now stared unblinkingly, looking for the telltale signs of deceit.

Cracks in the armour, hmmm. Damn irritating fellow that Hazelhot. Should never have let him in at all. Wot. Hmm. Slippery snake of a chap. Slippery.

His thoughts meandered about his ageing mind. Images of snakes with Hazelhot’s head on them drifted by.

Fangs too. Big ones. Like Borneo, fifty-four. What? Snakes, big hairy snakes, ready to plunder the ripe flesh of young…

Sir, Hoots was tapping his shoulder. Sir, the takeover, sir, he whispered quietly, so as not to embarrass Stott, who had drifted off.

Take over? What damn take over? Oh yes, the takeover… HAZELHOT! bellowed Stott.

Right here, Stott, replied Hazelhot in a tired monotone, as he wondered about the medication Stott was taking and if he could lace it.

Damn it man, don’t stand so close, you oaf, Stott barked at Hoots, to cover up the fact that he had dozed off. Hazelhot, I suspect there is more to this scandalous situation than meets the eye, and I don’t for a minute trust either of you degenerates.

A squeak came from Rigby, surprised to be having the attention pointing his way.

Hazelhot’s eyes rolled upwards in his head in disbelief at the cowardice of the man. Stott looked at Rigby and then gave him the infamous steely Stott stare. Beads of sweat could be seen forming on Rigby’s forehead, and he shivered noticeably.

Hazelhot, said Stott, and because of the unexpected success of his stare, he kept his eyes locked on Rigby as he spoke.

Stott? came the lackadaisical reply.

I suspect if I grilled this mouse under a low flame, then a lot more information than you or I want to hear would come to light. Hmm?

Stott had assumed incorrectly, it would not take a low flame to have Rigby spill the beans. Just a stern look, or a small boo, was more than enough.

As it is, Stott continued, now turning away from Rigby with a sense of victorious satisfaction to look back at Hazelhot. I know damn well you are after the company, and am more than prepared to fend you off. So, give it up Hazelhot. No good will come of it.

And with that, he signalled Hoots to help him up. He was done.

They spent the next five minutes in much the same way as they had spent the first five minutes, just in a reverse order. This time the yucca plant sailed in the opposite direction, as Hoots fell backwards while trying to keep his employer balanced in the vertical plane. When Stott finally made it out into the sunlit day, it was with a sense of achievement. Though he’d left behind him an atmosphere so thick, it could be cut with a knife.

You really are a pathetic maggot, said Hazelhot, as the gold Rolls Royce gently sparked its engines before gliding smoothly towards the exit of the industrial estate. Rigby cowered as Hazelhot moved towards him like a reptile going in for the kill.

And yet, he said, pausing mid-stride to casually stroll the last few steps. Inadvertently, you have brought about a situation that could now be of benefit. The old bastard was getting his rocks off, giving you that pathetic Stott stare. He would have been in here for hours if you hadn’t squirmed like an eel. As it was, he left in a curiously good mood. I realise now he just wants someone to bully, and you, my timid little mouse, fit the bill perfectly.

Hazelhot put a hand on Rigby’s shoulder in a brotherly way and squeezed it lightly while smiling at him. He was developing a plan. He um’d then ah’d. Thinking. Nodding. Pleased with his thoughts. Rigby didn’t dare move. But as his master seemed to relax, he risked straightening up and breathing again. Hazelhot looked almost joyous, and that came as a tremendous relief.

Yes, said Hazelhot. Yes, this really could work out rather well.

He looked back at Rigby, cocked his head to one side, to observe him for a moment. "Rigby, if you ever behave like that again, I will kill you."

Rigby then dropped to the floor like a sail dropped from a ship. Hazelhot brushed his hands together, as he liked to do after all his acts of violence.

Hmm, he mused, looking at his hands with admiration as he squeezed the thumb and index fingers together, marvelling at the simplicity of such powerful skills. He loved the opportunity to perform a pressure-point grip. It was always so devastating in its effectiveness.

Stepping over the unconscious pile on the floor that masqueraded for a human being, he pressed the buzzer on the intercom and leaned over the desk.

Miss Jones, Mr Rigby appears to have fainted again. Kindly bring the smelling salts.

He let go of the button and looked down at the crumpled wreck.

You may be a bumbling maggot, Rigby, but a maggot that may yet help me catch that old trout, hook, line, and sinker.

An Unwelcome Acquisition

How Sir Stott came to be head of a corporation specialising in pornography was a curious tale and a running joke throughout the mess halls of England. It all began one afternoon, post-argumentus with his wife, a well-bred lady of high social standing, who - and she frequently made this perfectly clear - he had been damn lucky to get. One afternoon, as they often did, they had argued. This led Sir Stott to seek solace in a little hideaway drinking parlour favoured by the upper echelons. There he found himself in the un-consoling company of the Earl of Cavendish, a known gambler and cad. Pretty soon Sir Stott was blind drunk and losing at a game of cards.

Spott, said the Earl, eyeing his latest victim with the look of a salivating wildcat.

God damn your rapscallion hide, the name is Stopp, I… I mean Stott!

Stott was losing his rag and his hand.

Spott, Stott, whatever your name is, play your hand and stop dithering, man, said the Earl, feeling satisfied his opponent was now on the back foot.

Stott had never been so insulted in his life. Well, not since about 4 pm that afternoon when his wife had ejected him from the love nest with venom that was positively acerbic in its delivery. He shuddered at the memory and wondered just how he might win favour with his beloved pet tarantula once again. Initial anger had now given way to a mild homesickness, or was it indigestion, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he knew he had to get back into her good books. Even if only to attain the comfort of being able to walk safely around the house without fear of crockery, missiles, or sharp lashings of the tongue. He laid his hand, and once again found himself in the losing seat.

What Ho! That’s three hundred quid and my deal! said the Earl. Stott, you really are a super chap you know, damn sporting of you to give in so easily. Anyone would think you were doing it to make a bloke feel at one with the world and himself. Really jolly decent of you, old sport.

Stott couldn’t reciprocate the emotion that was spewing forth from the far end of the table. In fact, he was pretty peeved with his day. He glared at the Earl. It was a calculated look, designed to send shivers down the spine of one’s enemy.

I say. Are you okay, old chap? You look a little queasy, one eye appears to be limping a little, how strange, said the Earl, knowing full well what was going on.

Stott adjusted himself. He would not take this from anyone, especially a whipper-snapper who clearly didn’t know his place. It was time to up the ante. Three hundred pounds is chickens feed, said Stott. Care to play for men’s stakes?

Quite what do you have in mind, old fruit? asked the Earl, stiffening slightly, rather more in excitement than fear. And a plan formed in the philistine mind of the Earl of Cavendish. Stott spoke first.

I have a small cottage in the lake district, worth eighty thousand pounds. Anything you care to put up against her? Stott dared the Earl.

This was, in theory, a smart move from Sir Stott. The thing was costing him an arm and a leg, and if it wasn’t listed in the Doomsday book, he would have raised it to the ground long ago and put up a hotel. As it was, he was bound by law to look after the damn thing, and it had simply become a curse he could well live without. He had also lost five times on the trot at this damn silly poker game. He knew as well as anyone that statistically the chances of him winning the next round were well in his favour. Or they should have been, but for the fact he was one drink to the wind and hadn’t noticed that it was the Earl’s cards they were playing with, and they were marked.

The Earl took the bait like a hungry trout, except he knew damn well it was bait, and he knew the cottage too. He’d heard of Stott’s headache one afternoon on the golfing range while he was caddying for his father, the late Earl of Cavendish senior. But the Earl younger had a thorn in his side of his own; a rather sad, though semi-lucrative company that he couldn’t put into liquidation. The reasons were complicated but involved a small but extremely violent group of thugs who were using it to launder their dirty money. Hence, the Earl was required to keep said company alive. In return, he got to keep his legs. A fair swap, maybe, but one that didn’t sit well with the Earl. In one of his meetings with the thugs, who called themselves Bulldog Security and even sported black bomber jackets that said so, he enquired how he might retire from their service, if such a thing had been his want. The answer was provided to him by Basher Bob, the guvner of said firm.

In a body bag, mate. Or by handing ownership over to another toff that is more rich, lordly, and stupid than you.

And so it was that the Earl had at last spotted his champion. All he had to do was convince Sir Stott that the business was reputable. That business was Pussy Productions, and it did exactly that, on video and any other media form it could find to distribute its smut.

Stott, I feel humbled to be before such a hustling card-sharp as yourself, and I can only offer as matching ante my little known, but splendidly versatile company, Pussy Productions, the Earl waited with bated breath for the response.

He’d expected Sir Stott to laugh the house down, but the long silence that ensued kept the Earl on the edge of his chair and locked him into the most difficult poker face of his career. It was with shocked relief, mixed with incredulity at his good fortune when, from the far end of the table, he heard Sir Stott’s reply.

God damn it boy, you are on. Deal those cards!

With a brash confidence, Sir Stott watched the cards arrive at his quarter. He couldn’t lose, or so he thought. On the one hand, he would rid himself of the rat-ridden hell hole that cost him a small fortune each year in the Lake District, and on the other, he would return home to inform his wife that he was now the proud owner of a cattery. She would certainly be overwhelmed by the gesture, especially since she knew how much he hated cats. Back in her good favour, with the peaceful tranquillity of home life restored, life would be simple again. He smiled to himself, picturing her tending to their feral feline needs. She would also be out of his hair and kept busy. A most excellent result, he thought, as he promptly received a Royal Flush and bagged the game.

This turning point in Sir Stott's career - not to mention his life - led first to divorce, and then swiftly on to the collapse of most areas of his life that hitherto seemed unchangeable. He had correctly assessed his wife’s excitement at such a gift and things really seemed to go exactly as he’d hoped they would. Right until Lady Stott arrived at her new company.

Wearing her favourite mink coat, she sashayed in as if she owned the place, which she did, or at least, her husband did. The young woman on reception - who she noted looked far too cheap to remain in service now she was in charge - asked what business she had there. Lady Stott raised herself in fine ladylike splendour and looked down the bridge of her nose at the woman, as was the custom when questioned by such lesser mortals. Pausing elegantly just for a moment, she then informed her.

I, madam, am Lady Stott, she said grandly. My husband, Sir Stott, has recently purchased this company and I should like to see the cats and their condition. Now, run along, there’s a dear, and see they are prepared for inspection immediately.

Miss Jones, realising her mistake, and terrified that her new boss hadn't taken a liking to her, did as she was told. Once they were ready, she re-appeared and invited the Lady to carry out her task.

Lady Stott took one step inside the office and the shock of what lay before her was imprinted on her mind for the rest of her days, suppressed only minimally by the powerful drugs she would become addicted to in attempts to quash it. After the briefest of moments, when one has been locked inescapably into a view that will never diminish in intensity, one often reacts assertively, and Lady Stott did just that. Instinctively, she took off at a pace in the opposite direction from that which she had just been staring, absolutely aghast and in terror. Unfortunately, she neglected to open the large glass door as she passed through it. Where she was going was anybody’s guess, just away somewhere, anywhere, but there.

In the room, spread out before her, had been naked women, their legs akimbo and their vaginas bared for display. Some shaved, some hairy, some large, some small, but all prepped and glistening, ready for inspection. Just as she had asked. Smiling up at her was an insane mockery. An Hieronymus Bosch of dystopian proportions that she had never known existed. Not even in the deepest, darkest reaches of her upper-class mind did what she witnessed that day make any kind of sense. Not then, not later, not ever. Only powerful medication would keep it from manifesting into her consciousness, day or night.

But the trouble didn’t end there for Sir Stott. On hearing that his new company wasn’t quite what it was supposed to be, he immediately went round to find those responsible. He had plans to bring about some Etonian justice, but instead he found Bulldog Security, who had also recently arrived to find out what was going on. Sir Stott was one sentence into his lecture when a fist the size of a melon laid him flat on his back in the same spot that his wife had stood while requesting to see some pussy. When he came round, he thought he was dead. A throbbing told him his nose was somewhere it didn't belong, and the sight of four large and ugly dark angels confronted him. A voice somewhere behind him outlined his situation and what would be required of him in the future. He took it all in quietly, and was promptly ejected from the premises by air.

After that, he went home to find his wife’s solicitors had beaten him to it. The locks were changed and legal process was already under way. So, he went instead to the hospital to have his nose fixed and x-rays taken of the other parts of his body that had received additional attention from the Bulldogs. It was during his time in the hospital that he found an apparent solution to his problems.

It ‘as been an ‘umbling experience, Stott said hazily to the gentleman in the bed next to him.

He’d come round from surgery to discover a splint taped to his nose. It made talking a little difficult. Normally, he would have found himself in a private room with all mod cons. On this occasion, he was incognito because he had to avoid the press, so he had booked in as Mr Spiff. He couldn’t say Smith because of the clotted blood and the bend in his nose. Neither would he usually have spoken to any members of the public, merely barked orders at various navies to get whatever he needed. As it was, the drugs they had injected him with - and the gas that he kept breathing in - were acting something like a truth serum. Stott was happy to talk about anything that came to mind, and there was quite a lot on his mind that day.

It was a Mr R Hazelhot, ex-paratrooper and buggerer of anything young and male, that quizzed him in an extremely zealous manor from the neighbouring bed. Sir Stott was oblivious to Hazelhot’s machinations. In fact, he was oblivious to anything except the pleasing gas that he sucked on like a hungry guppy.

Tell me more, Mr Spiff, said Hazelhot.

Well, my name’s not Spiff, it’s Snott, Sir Snott actually.

Really? Go on.

Hazelhot’s interest was so piqued by all he was hearing, he found it hard not to rub his hands in glee.

And so it was, Stott told Hazelhot everything about himself and his unhappy situation, and plenty more besides. Hazelhot had recently gone through a similar and equally violent situation, but in his case it had been a little more deserved. He had recently received a beating, followed by swift ejection from Her Majesty’s forces. During the time he had been with them, rather than perfect the inner soldier, they had effectively turned him into a highly trained and extremely dangerous pervert. Instead of becoming the protector of Queen & Country, the country was now more at risk with Hazelhot at large. But Stott was blissfully unaware of the creature’s less salubrious proclivities, as he offloaded his life story upon him.

…and that is ‘ow I came to be like this. I really don’t know what to do about it, said Sir Stott as he finished his tale.

Before he’d finished speaking, Hazelhot knew exactly what he was going to do. Craning his neck as far as he could in order to get a good look at Sir Stott through the plaster-cast that currently covered his head, he outlined his plan, or at least a portion of it. The portion which he hoped would appeal to Sir Stott in his hour of need. Sir Stott listened eagerly. Despite his higher state of consciousness, he knew a good plan when he heard one, and besides, he had very little alternative. Help from this strange, plaster-cast saviour was certainly a welcome change to his recent run of bad luck. He had no other friends left to turn to. No family, and now no wife. Hazelhot was indeed his saviour in that moment. Though in future months Sir Stott would have course to consider the phrase; out of the frying pan and into the fire in something of a new light.

Acts of altruistic salvation were also not passing through Hazelhot's mind as he stood overlooking the wretched Rigby laying prostrate in the main office of Pussy Productions as Miss Jones attempted a revival.

Should I give him mouth to mouth? she asked, after administering the smelling salts to Rigby, which had first made him writhe, then sent him into a catatonic state.

Mumma, dribbled Rigby.

Don’t be ridiculous, Miss Jones. He is perfectly fine and just needs a moment to recover.

Miss Jones looked disappointed. Hazelhot wondered how any woman could want to have anything to do with such an inept creature as Rigby.

Go back to reception, Miss Jones, thank you. I can take it from here.

Rigby went through the full spectrum of emotions as he regained consciousness. It began with the soft delicate voice of an angel calling to him through the meadows. He followed the sound and presently saw the face of his long departed mother. She was smiling down at him as she floated a little way above the coloured flowers. Soon she seemed to change into Miss Jones, and Rigby knew then he was safe. He was home in Narnia. But what was that? Dadda? Rigby turned around in the meadow. He could hear Dadda somewhere, too. Then a darkness fell, and the thunderous voice of the Devil brought the scene crashing down around him as pain entered his head and settled there to throb.

Get up Rigby, you ridiculous buffoon, said Hazelhot, kicking him lightly after the doting Miss Jones had reluctantly left the room.

Okay daddy, replied Rigby, still in a dreamworld.

What? asked Hazelhot.

Nothing, just a dream, sorry, said Rigby, waking back into the painful reality that was life trapped in a business with Hazelhot. He rubbed his head. It thumped ferociously. I wish you wouldn’t do that to me, he added, somewhat bravely, considering what he had just experienced.

Shut up Rigby, replied Hazelhot.

It had been Hazelhot’s intention to take over Pussy Productions from the start. And this recent attempt was no different. Since expanding the company into Europe and America, they had grown it into one of the world’s leading specialist suppliers of porn.

Quaker and Quaker were a small but well-funded company that did nothing other than float around the stock exchange like a deep-sea shark, looking to snap up anything that might be edible enough to feed it. One of its silent partners was a Mr R Hazelhot. The other silent partners were so silent they had no say in the affairs of Quaker and Quaker. In fact, they were all dead, so it afforded them no perks where the company was concerned. They were dead even before the company was born into existence, which was probably better for them since Stott and Rigby could attest to the fact that to be living and mixed up in a company with Hazelhot was tantamount to facing imminent death, anyway. Hence why Stott had employed the loyal henchman Hoots, his South African chauffeur and bodyguard. What Hoots lacked in personality, he made up for in loyalty and capability. What Sir Stott lacked in card-playing skills and drinking, he made up for in survival and business acumen. He knew damn well that Hazelhot was out to get him, and he knew he would likely kill Stott if he had to. In fact, that was what he had been trying to do, one way or the other, since the day Stott signed the contract with him, thus handing over one third of the company to the reptilian creature. Of course, at the time, it had looked like Hazelhot was bailing Stott out of trouble for a share of the franchise, but a third share just wasn’t enough for a psychopath. Hazelhot now wanted it all.

Hazelhot desired absolute control simply because that was how he functioned. He had instantly seen the value of the business Stott had unwittingly become a part of. All that really stood in his way was Bulldog Security, and after he got rid of them, he planned to get rid of Stott. Then, he felt sure world domination of the porn industry would be his for the taking. Hazelhot had worked all this out soon after meeting Stott and hearing his tale. And what better way to feed one’s own nefarious desires in life than to be knee-deep in smut on a daily basis? Unfortunately for Hazelhot, it hadn’t turned out exactly as planned. Yet. Stott had had other ideas, and had proved less than easy to dispose of, especially now he had Hoots in tow.

As for Bulldog Security, well, they had learnt a few lessons about thuggery, not to mention buggery, that no sane man would have wished his worst enemies to endure, let alone a team of ne’er-do-well villains masquerading as a Security firm from Peckham, South London. And that is where this story begins.

PART II

Bulldog Security

Bulldog Security. Basher Bob. I’m the Guv’nor, said a man into a large wall mirror.

He’d been practising that introduction since he was a nipper. Christened Boppy Beans, Basher had pretty soon discovered two things in life: first, that stupid names get you picked on at school, and second, that beating the crap out of people puts a stop to it. With a good dose of the second, Basher completely got rid of the first. He hadn’t heard the name Boppy since he was twelve years old. Whenever he had heard the name Boppy, it had mostly been associated with the phrase queer cunt. So the name Boppy associated itself in his mind with that phrase, and thus he had sought to eradicate it from his world. Basher Bob was not a queer.

He tried it again, this time with the head tilted back, and a little more gold tooth showing. Yea, that was it, nice.

Bulldog Security. Basher Bob. I’m the Guv’nor.

He was standing in his bedroom in